Boy

The interior of the car she's sitting in isn't visually dirty, but there's a residual fast food-motor oil- sweaty scent that lands on her pale arms like a thin, itchy blanket of ick . Her cheek is cold against the tinted window and her eyelashes brush their peak when she glances down at the brown and wrinkled sliver of apple wedged in between her seat and the door. She still remembers when she dropped the slice.

Not much has changed since, except that her best friend is very much dead and, as a result, is not currently available to tell her to sit in the passenger seat and to open the window, dammit, or to stop her from eating pre-packaged apple slices in his precious car. He loved this car.

She

loved

him.